


embrace the deception (learn how to bend)

by spiekiel



Category: Psych, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Humor, M/M, Stiles is a fake psychic, if we do the math this makes Derek Jules, psych!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiekiel/pseuds/spiekiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who's this doofus?"</p><p>"New consultant," Erica grumbles.  "Stiles, like that's a real name.  Chief says he's some kind of psychic."</p><p>or, the Psych AU, where Stiles is a fake psychic, and Derek is a detective who is not amused</p>
            </blockquote>





	embrace the deception (learn how to bend)

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this is loosely based off actual episodes of Psych, so there may be tiny spoilers in here for that.

"Stiles," says Derek. "You're an idiot."

 

Stiles does his best to look personally offended, which is slightly difficult, given the gun at the back of his head.  "I have been called many things in my short lifetime," he begins theatrically, oblivious to the way Derek's stomach swoops at the word _short_.  "Brilliant, amazing, insightful, similar to Robin Williams in many respects - "

 

_"Stiles - "_

 

"But an idiot? Never," Stiles finishes.  He's standing stiffly, like he has to physically resist the urge to wave his hands about to illustrate his speech, lest he irritate the hostage-taker standing behind him.  "Besides, this guy's not going to shoot me.  He's innocent."

 

Derek has a not-so-sudden urge to roll his eyes, but it's downplayed by the fact that they're both still in immediate danger, along with the thirteen other hostages lined up along the bank counter.  So instead of obliging Stiles' deliberately vague antics, he tightens his hold on his sidearm, still holstered as per the hostage-taker's demands, and bites out, " _Explain_."

 

Stiles catches Derek's gaze with his own.  It would take three big steps across the bank floor for Derek to reach him, but he's not sure he could close the distance before the gun goes off, and that's not a risk he's willing to take.

 

"Someone's making him do it," Stiles says.  "Whoever they are, they're holding his wife hostage."  The hostage-taker makes a pained face and nods from behind him.  "She's still alive - I spoke to her recently, psychically."

 

The hostage-taker is looking around the room uneasily, like he's expecting someone to creep up on him from behind - which, given that Erica's trigger-happy fiancé Boyd is just outside, waiting to lead in his SWAT team, probably isn't that paranoid.  Derek almost wishes that Stiles wasn't such a do-gooder, so that maybe the shot that one of the snipers took earlier would have found its mark, instead of empty space where Stiles had tackled the - apparently innocent - hostage-taker out of the way.

 

This is really not how Derek planned on spending his Sunday.

 

"Did you get a location?" he asks, forcing himself not to argue with Stiles further, since - mystery of all mysteries - the pscho with the gun has apparently designated Stiles his negotiator.  

 

Stiles starts to shake his head, then seems to think better of it when his ear catches against the cold barrel of the gun.  "Not yet, but - "

 

"You should have gotten one earlier," says the hostage-taker.  The atmosphere in the room shifts suddenly, and Derek's entire body tenses, ice water dripping down the back of his neck, hyper-aware of the situation because _this is what he trained for_.  "Why didn't you find out where she was earlier, man? I trusted you, come on - "

 

He waves the gun around a little, and Stiles flinches, his eyes squeezing closed, and that's his window of opportunity but he misses it, because Stiles was never a fighter, shouldn't have to be.  

 

The other hostages cower closer into the bank counter, a whisper of fear running through them.  One woman starts crying quietly into the shoulder of the man next to her, and when Stiles catches sight of her, he straightens himself up and sets his jaw.  Derek's heart clenches uncomfortably, because that's the face of a man going into battle, prepared to die -  

 

"That's not how it works," he says, wiggling his fingers at his temple, now that he's gotten a couple extra inches of space from the hostage-taker.  "I can't just _wham-bam hocus-pocus_ get whatever information I want, no matter how awesome that would be."

 

The guy brandishes his gun some more, and this time it's Derek who flinches.  "Why the hell not? You're a psychic, aren't you?"  

 

If Stiles would just step a smidge to his left, the sniper on top of the hardware store across the street from the bank would have a clear shot at the hostage-taker, and maybe Derek could get them both home with enough time to marathon the contents of his DVR.  But no - Stiles thinks this guy is innocent, at least of trying to rob this place, and he probably spotted the sniper after that first failed shot, is probably deliberately standing in the way.

 

"Alright," says Stiles.

 

He's partially facing away from Derek, so he can't see what he's thinking, but he's a hundred percent positive he's not going to like it.  "Stiles," he says.  "Careful."

 

Stiles doesn't acknowledge him, but Derek knows he's heard him.  "I'll try to speak with her again," he continues.  The crazed look goes out of the hostage-taker's eyes, at least for now, and Derek would breathe a sigh of relief, except for Stiles is still talking, and that's almost always a recipe for disaster.

 

"But I can't promise anything," Stiles is saying.  "Chances are she doesn't even know where she is, and whatever information she can give me will probably be  pretty spotty - " anger reappears on the hostage-taker's face, and Stiles scrambles to appease him - "but I'll try my best."

 

The hostage-taker waves the gun in Stiles' direction.  "Go on, then."

 

Stiles raises a hand slowly, like that would do any good against a bullet if that guy decided to shoot.  "I need quiet, peace - I need to be alone.  I'll use the bank manager's office, it'll be ten minutes tops."

 

The hostage-taker nods shortly.  "Fine.  Go."

 

***

 

"Who's this doofus?"  

 

His partner Erica makes a sour face at him, then goes back to watching distastefully as Stiles flourishes about the back of the crime scene, his friend Scott standing awkwardly next to him, looking like he wishes Stiles would just keep his gangly limbs to himself when they were in the presence of dead people.  

 

"New consultant," Erica grouses.  "Stiles, like that's a real name.  Chief says he's some kind of psychic.  Apparently he's Sheriff Stilinski's kid."  

 

Derek pulls his mouth sideways into a grimace, because Stiles is now bonding with the victim's puppy, which Scott has somehow ended up holding for him at eye level.  "Why'd we get saddled with him?"  

 

Erica shrugs.  "Chief thinks our closure rate needs a boost, and he's willing to try just about anything to get the results he wants."  She watches as Stiles presses his ear to the puppy's head, nodding thoughtfully.  "Even this circus act."

 

Derek looks over at the victim, laid up on the couch, looking for all the world like he's just asleep, when really he's been snuffed out by an overdose.  There's no sign of foul play, or forced entry, and neighbors report that they haven't seen anyone go in or out for the past three days, which is about time of death, from the preliminary medical report.  

 

"Well, this one should be open-and-shut, even without the psychic's help," he says.  He circles the couch, pulling on his latex gloves, and crouches in front of the coffee table, picking up the open bottle of pills sitting there to read the label.  "Overdose on sleeping pills, probably deliberate suicide, given the fact that this is a standing prescription, and there are a number of warnings on the bottle."

 

Someone kneels next to him, and he looks up expecting to see Erica ready with an evidence bag.  Instead, it's Stiles, the puppy still clutched to his chest.

 

"You think it was a suicide," Stiles says.

 

Derek eyes him sideways, this goofy kid in a bright green graphic tee with a pineapple emblazoned across the chest.  He doesn't think he's going to like where this is going.  "Yes," he says carefully, "since it _was_ a suicide."  

 

Stiles narrows his eyes questioningly, and Derek can tell that their working relationship is only going to get more difficult as it goes on.  "I don't think so, buddy," Stiles says.  "Gus says it was murder."

 

Derek raises an eyebrow, and Stiles doesn't yet know him well enough to identify that as Derek asking him to clarify something, so Derek has to add, "Gus?"

 

Stiles raises the fluff ball puppy so that it's face-to-face with Derek.  "Gus the puppy," he says.  "He witnessed the murder.  He's very traumatized; he's going to need thousands of dollars of therapy."  

 

"The dog told you this," says Derek flatly, the open, mostly-empty bottle of sleeping pills still held in one hand.  "I find that hard to believe."

 

Stiles scoffs at him.  "He speaks to me on a spiritual, telepathic, dirigible level," Derek isn't sure whether he's honestly trying to defend himself, or just throwing out words.  "I hear his puppy thoughts."  

 

"Right," says Derek disbelievingly, "and what kind of puppy thoughts are you hearing now?"  He shoots a look across the room at Erica, to find her half-watching them over her shoulder, talking to CSI in the hallway.

 

Stiles presses his ear back to the top of the puppy's head quite seriously, while the dog looks up at Derek with big, adorable eyes to go with its big, droopy ears.  "Hungry thoughts," Stiles declares after a few moments of this.  "He's craving something.  Bird.  Liquid.  Liquid bird? Chicken? Chicken soup?"  Stiles pulls his head back dramatically, pressing his fingers to his temple.  "Chicken marinade? Chicken marinade, coming right up."

 

He leaps up from the floor, the puppy bouncing against his chest, and bounds out of the room.  Derek sets the pills back on the table and follows him quickly, hot on his heels as they enter the kitchen.

 

Stiles cuts a beeline for the fridge.  "Stilinski," Derek says warningly.  "Don't disturb the crime scene - "

 

It's too late, because apparently Stiles is as oblivious as he seems, and just goes right ahead and pulls the refridgerator door open, poking his head inside.

 

"Chicken marinade!" he exclaims, as Derek comes up behind him, a CSI tech looking at them oddly from over at the sink.  "Eureka!"

 

Stiles turns to face Derek, but the puppy's head stays trained on the open fridge, like he really is craving that chicken.  "See? Why would someone who was about to committ suicide start a marinade if he knew he wasn't going to be around to finish it? That doesn't fit, does it?"

 

Derek's skeptical.  He's never really believed in any of that supernatural shit, and it's going to take a while to convince him about an honest-to-God _psychic,_ but this kid's reasoning makes sense.  "It's not exactly hard evidence," he says, somewhat begrudgingly, "but it may just be enough to open an investigation."

 

Which is good, because Derek likes homicide investigations much more than he likes the stacks and stacks of paperwork that come with writing up suicides.  Not that he'll ever admit that to anyone.

 

***

 

Derek is tempted to give Boyd's team the go-ahead.  

 

He knows that they're going to come in hot, probably with tear gas, and that there are going to be a lot of hostages on their way to the hospital, because teargas is unbelievably painful even when you haven't spent the day being emotionally traumatized, but - 

 

Stiles has left the main reception area, off to some office in the back, and he's really the person that Derek was the most worried about, because the idea of  something happening to Stiles is - it's - Derek would never forgive himself.  He feels terrible for it, but he could almost stand the risk to the other hostages, now that Stiles is safe.

 

The woman who was crying earlier has managed to get herself together, and is dabbing at her ruined mascara with the hem of her cardigan.  The hostage-taker is pacing the length of the bank, carefully removed from the windows, pointing his gun intermittently at random hostages.  He's starting to sweat, figuratively and literally, the back of his button down shirt stuck to his skin.

 

Derek knows that in the next half-hour the hostage-taker's mentality is going to start to deteriorate, if it isn't already.  He's going to become erratic, but he might start to slip up, and that might give them their in.

 

Derek casts a look at the back hall that Stiles had disappeared down, then over his shoulder at the police barricade a hundred meters back from the bank entrance.  

 

***

 

Derek's phone rings at eleven p.m.  

 

He's been asleep for two hours already, as he's not accustomed to staying up late, but the ability to be alert in a matter of seconds whenever duty calls has been deeply ingrained in his muscle memory.  He rolls over in bed and answers the phone with a gruff, "H'lo?"

 

"Derek," Stiles' voice comes over the line.  "Derek, it's Kate Argent."

 

Derek sits up in bed, reaching over to flick on his bedside lamp.  His small bedroom, most of the space taken up by a king size bed, is thrown into dim relief, shadows clinging at the corners.  "What?" he asks, wide awake now.

 

"She missed a meeting with her parole officer twelve hours ago," Stiles explains frantically, and it's a measure of how long they've been working together that Derek can actually decipher the babble of words coming out of his mouth.  "It has to be her - the threats, the murders in the woods - she's back, Derek, we were looking in the wrong place the whole time - "

 

Derek pulls open his bedside drawer, removing his sidearm, still in the holster, from on top of a stack of unread _Home and Garden_ issues.  "Why now?" he asks.

 

"I don't know," says Stiles, and curses under his breath.  "Maybe Allison was talking to her about the wedding? I know you're on the guest list, she might've let it slip, it might've triggered something - "

 

"No, Stiles," says Derek slowly, his voice low.  "Why are you calling now?"

 

Something that sounds like a car horn blasts out behind the sound of Stiles' words over the line.  "I'm on my way to your house now," he says.  "I'll be there in three minutes, tops, so just hang in there - "

 

"Stiles."  Derek sets his gun down on the bed next to him so that he has a hand free to run his hand down his face.  "Why are you coming to my house?"

 

"It's been three weeks since the murders started," Stiles says, like _duh_.  "Something tells me she's operating on the same time table as last time, and three weeks after the first murder was - "

 

"The night she burned down my house," Derek finishes.  His stomach tightens, and his heart skitters up into his throat, flames mingling with the shadows in front of his eyes.  He takes a deap breath, holds it, and doesn't let it out again until he hears the soft, sympathetic noise that Stiles makes.  "My sister," he says finally.

 

"There's a detail on its way to Cora's apartment already," Stiles assures him.  "Erica said she'd meet me at your place with 'maximum firepower,' whatever that means - "  

 

Derek misses the rest of that, because a burst of machine gunfire shatters his eardrums as his panoramic bedroom window explodes inwards.  

 

He hits the floor with his hands over his head, phone pressed into the back of his neck, and through the echoing in his ears he can vaguely hear Stiles having a heart attack in his car.

 

The gunfire stops for a brief moment, and Derek manages to snatch his sidearm from the bed, dropping his phone in the process.  He can't get a good look out the window - Kate's gone and shot out all of his porch lights - so he has to guess when he has an opening.

 

He doesn't guess well, takes a round to the shoulder when he decides to dive for the hall door.  "Shit," he grunts, falling hard against the back wall of the hallway.  

 

He's got twenty seconds before Kate comes through his first-story bedroom window, and by then he's got to be in the kitchen, because the granite countertops are going to be the best cover for small arms fire.

 

He lurches across the hardwood floors, his socks sliding out underneath him, and manages to get between the island and the oven before the next bout of machine gunfire starts up again, blasting open his beautiful french doors.  Bullets slam into every surface in the kitchen, knocking all the pots from the pot rack and breaking all his china inside the cabinets.  

 

Derek tamps down on the pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder, and when the gunfire lets up this time, he's already moving for the front door.  He's just getting the latch undone when he hears a yell from outside that sets his blood running cold - 

 

" _Hey!_ Kate Argent!"  

 

Jesus God, that's Stiles.  Stiles is confronting a psychopath bitch outside of Derek's house, he's an idiot, he's brilliant, Derek can't lose him - 

 

He swings the front door open quietly to reveal the scene outside.  Kate's standing on his front walk, machine gun balanced on her hip, attention on Stiles, who's standing at the bottom of Derek's driveway in front of his Jeep, hands held out.

 

"I don't know what you're trying to accomplish," Stiles is saying, "I can't get a read on you, and I'm not sure how to negotiate, here, because you're seriously crazy, lady, like stone-cold batshit crazy, like Joker crazy - "

 

He looks more scared than Derek's ever seen him.  

 

Derek has the shot.  He takes it.  

 

Kate goes down hard, and when he walks up behind her he can see that her eyes are staring up at the night sky, lifeless.  He shoots her again, anyways, just to be absolutely certain.  Also, it feels kind of nice to have her brain matter spattered across his front lawn.  

 

He looks up, and he must have zoned out for a minute there, because Stiles is suddenly right in front of him and looking very concerned, probably because of the amount of blood currently soaking into Derek's shirt.  

 

Stiles doesn't say anything, just steps forward, and then suddenly his hands are all over him, flittering over the bullet wound, and Derek's arm drops to his side, his gun still clutched loosely.  "I'm fine," he says.

 

Stiles nods.  He goes up on the balls of his feet to press his lips to Derek's forehead, and Derek's out of it enough that he just closes his eyes and lets him.

 

***

 

Derek starts to ease his sidearm from the holster, but stops the moment Stiles reappears from the bank manager's office.

 

It can't have been longer than fifteen minutes since he left, but already he's found the hostage-taker's wife, if the way he's carrying a rolled-up manila file is any indication.  He reenters the room with his usual level of theatricality, which really is not recommended, given the delicacy of the situation.

 

The hostage-taker snaps back into attention, falling in at Stiles' side the moment he's back in the equation.  Derek wants to whack Stiles for his stupidity, but at the same time he wants nothing more than to get him out of there _, now_.  

 

"I spoke with your wife again," Stiles tells the hostage-taker.  "She's safe - she's scared, but she's safe, and she knows you're trying to get to her."

 

Derek has to bite back a snort of derision, because _this?_ this is not how you go about ensuring the safety of your loved ones.  

 

"I managed to look through her eyes for a few moments," Stiles says, "to see where she was being held.  Now, it wasn't a complete picture, but it was enough to go off of."  He holds up the file.  "I printed all the information that the cops might need, and put it in here."

 

The hostage-taker seizes the folder.  "Let me see that," he says, "make sure you're not playing any tricks."  He flips through it, then nods and hands it back to Stiles.  "Give it to the detective," he says, nodding at Derek.

 

Stiles walks across the floor quickly and hands the file to Derek.  Derek takes it from him, his eyes fixed on Stiles' face the whole time, the permanently-slightly-upward curve of his mouth, the barely-there crinkle at the coners of his eyes that Derek thinks should be deeper, given how often he laughs.  

 

"Run like the wind," Stiles mutters, when he's near enough.  "This guy doesn't want to shoot anyone, but he's just about running on empty here."

 

Derek nods.  He has to actively resist the tingling in the tips of his fingers that wants him to seize Stiles by the collar of his polo shirt, kiss him just in case it's his last chance - which, it can't be.  It can't be.  "Stiles - "

 

Stiles must pick up on the finality in his tone, because he says, "Go.  Quickly.  But come back, please."

 

It's laughable that Stiles thinks he would ever consider not coming back.  "When we give the word that we have his wife in custody," Derek says, "he has to come peacefully.  He's not going to get another chance."

 

Stiles gives a little sideways jerk of his head that indicates he understands.  "He will," he assures him.

 

"Alright!" shouts the hostage-taker suddenly.  "You've had your heartfelt goodbyes.  The detective needs to leave now."  

 

Stiles swallows, and turns to walk back into the fray.  Derek turns out the front doors of the bank, every step more difficult to take than the last.

 

***

 

"He's going to be fine, Derek," Erica says.  She's behind the wheel of the Camaro, because - as she put it - Derek's not in a stable enough emotional state to drive.  "We're going to find him."

 

Derek can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from the rush of trees flitting past outside, like maybe he'll see Stiles, hobbling along down the road.  "It's been eight hours already," he says lowly.  

 

He can feel Erica watching him out of the corner of her eye.  "Yeah," she says, "it has.  I know your head is chock full of kidnapping statistics right now, and if it is, then you'll know that we have four more hours before our chances of finding him alive are cut in half."  She laughs a little, and it sounds forced, "Plus, this is Stiles we're talking about.  Chances are he's already escaped, or annoyed the kidnapper so much that they let him go."

 

Apparently that's all she has to say, because the car falls silent after that.  The quiet gives way to a roar of white noise in Derek's head, punctuated by thoughts that make him dig his fingers deeper into the armrest to keep from hitting something, like himself, or the windshield.  

 

He watches the forest roll past avidly, because he's afraid that he'll miss something.  Afraid that when he closes his eyes, inevitably, he'll see Stiles as he was the last time Derek was with him - in the bullpen at the station, Stiles dozing in Derek's desk chair so that Derek had to go and find a folding chair to try and get some work done.  He hadn't accomplished anything that evening, had instead spent the rest of his shift watching Stiles breathe gently.

 

A phone rings suddenly.  Derek can't for the life of him tell whose it is.  

 

Erica picks it up.  She listens for a long minute, then gives a terse _thanks_ and hangs up.  "Gas station," she says, "just up the road."

 

Derek's out the car door in a flat second the instant the Camaro pulls into the gas station.  He runs up to a closed employees-only door next to a dilapidated garage door, his sidearm out and at his side, trigger finger itching.  

 

Erica's got her badge out, like she thinks Derek's actually going to stop at the door to shout _SBPD_.  Instead of taking the time to do that, Derek will take the time to do paperwork later - he kicks open the door and leads with his gun.

 

The only light inside the building is from sun leaking in through the dirty, high-up windows, and it takes Derek's eyes a few moments to adjust.  

 

When they do, he sees something that stops his heart and then kick starts it at the same time - Stiles, slumped in a chair like he's tied to it, head lolling forward against his chest.

 

It's a good thing Erica's paying attention and observing police protocol, because the moment he catches sight of Stiles, he has tunnel vision, can't seem to focus on anything but the blood, stark against Stiles' pale skin.

 

He holsters his sidearm, registering in the back of his mind that Erica has broken off to sweep the rest of the building.  He falls to his knees in front of Stiles, hands going immediately to the sides of Stiles' face to lift his head.

 

"Stiles," he says desperately.  "Stiles, come on, open your eyes.  You have to open your eyes."  

 

He runs his thumbs across Stiles' cheeks, shifting so that his arms are supporting most of his slumped weight.  "Stiles, don't do this to me," he murmurs, "just open your eyes."

 

He hears Erica's high-heeled boots on the concrete floor behind him, but doesn't turn around to acknowledge her.  Stiles' eyes are trying to open, eyelids laboring under a the layer of blood caked into his eyelashes.  Derek holds his breath as Stiles' gaze finally catches his, and he didn't know what he was expecting, but Stiles' eyes are the same as they've always been - bright and beautiful and Derek's all-time favorite color.

 

Stiles smiles, his lips dry and cracked.  "Hey," he says, voice crackly.  "Fancy seeing you here."  

 

Derek kisses him.  He wants to be gentle, but he can't, not when he's been sitting on the edge of his seat for the past eight hours, one foot over the cliff, hanging on by a thread.  So he slams his mouth against Stiles' and feels the other man collapse against him, some of the stress going out of his muscles.

 

***

 

Derek kisses his way down Stiles' chest, Stiles' polo bunched up under his armpits, Derek's weight settled between Stiles' legs.  Stiles ribcage expands and contracts rapidly under Derek's fingers, and he's never felt anything so amazing, so perfect, because two hours ago there was a gun to Stiles' head, and Derek was thinking about how he'd only ever kissed him once - 

 

He tongues Stiles' nipple, and Stiles arches underneath him, his long fingers buried in Derek's hair.  "You know," he gasps, "we really should have done this sooner.  Why didn't we do this sooner? That was really dumb of us, wasn't it."

 

They're laid up on Stiles' bed in his apartment, the walls around them decorated with movie posters and newspaper clippings declaring _Psych Solves Their Third Case This Month!_ and _Stiles Stilinski, Santa Barbara's Premier Psychic Detective, Appears at Comic Con with His Sidekick Lavender Gooms._

 

Derek hums against his skin, his hands in the small of Stiles' back so that he can press up and swirl his tongue around Stiles' belly button.  Stiles keens, whatever he was about to say cut off by the fact that Derek's slipping his hand down the back of his  _Back to the Future_ boxer briefs.  

 

Derek pulls the underwear down over Stiles' hips, but can't be bothered to move out of the way to get it down Stiles' legs, not when that would mean losing the heat of Stiles underneath him, even for a few seconds.  

 

"You were really worried today, weren't you?" Stiles muses, his voice half-strangled under Derek's ministrations.  "I had it all under control, he wasn't going to shoot me - "

 

Derek surges up to smash their mouths together, working Stiles lips open with his tongue so that he can shut him up, just for a second.  He pulls back once Stiles is good and breathless, looks him dead in those knockout eyes.  "I was very worried," he concedes, "because you're an idiot, and you were going to get yourself killed."

 

Stiles has apparently recovered from the kiss, because he manages to scoff incredulously.  "Nuh-uh.  Safety was on the gun the whole time."

 

Derek looks at him in surprise.  "What?" Stiles says.  "You didn't notice? It was all one big bluff, that's why I couldn't let you shoot him - "

 

Derek kisses him again, softer this time, like maybe he's feeling relieved, retroactively.  Stiles hums in the back of his throat and grabs Derek by the back of the head, pulling him down against him so that they're skin-to-skin, so close that Stiles' nose is pressed sideways against Derek's cheek.

 

Derek releases him to work his way back down the middle of Stiles' abdomen, sucking a bruise into Stiles' collar bone just to hear the moan it punches out of him.  He doesn't give Stiles much warning, doesn't see where the fun is in that, just takes the head of Stiles' dick in his mouth and _sucks_ , his hands holding Stiles' hips against the bed.

 

"Shit," Stiles swears.  "Fuck, Derek, _fuck."_

 

Another couple inches, and Stiles' fingers in Derek's hair clench into fists, his head thumping back against the base of his headboard.  "I have to say something," he bites out, "really, I have to say something."

 

If he's expecting Derek to pull back, he's sorely mistaken - Derek just sinks lower, fisting the base of Stiles dick and running the pad of his tongue along the underside.  "Okay," Stiles blurts, the word a half-groan.  "I'm not a real psychic."

 

Derek freezes, and feels Stiles go tense underneath him.  He pulls off slowly, twisting around the head as he does just to see the way Stiles' eyes try to roll back in his head.

 

He only lets Stiles stew in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.  Waits until Stiles' nervous gaze catches his, doing his best not to let his face betray how much he wants to smile, and then says, very calmly, "I know."

 

Stiles looks like he's been slapped.  "You know?" 

 

Derek lets himself smile a little, because the expression on Stiles face makes him want to kiss him, wrap himself around him, sleep for days, just the two of them.  "Of course I know," he says.

 

"Oh," Stiles breathes.  "Alright, then."

 

He reaches foward, his hands on either side of Stiles' face, forehead pressed to his so that Stiles has no choice but to look him in the eye.  "Besides, I never believed in psychics, or any of that stuff," he says, very quietly, so that only Stiles will ever hear.  "I only ever believed in you."

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to point out any mistakes


End file.
